Shame be to them
by Arithanas
Summary: SYNOPSIS: 1630, Picardy. A rich house is not one that have everything, it's the one which is most welcoming. Post-book fiction. Porthos/Coquenard. DISCLAIMER: Dumas and Maquet's works are public domain.


**Title: **Shame be to them  
**Rating: **PG  
**SYNOPSIS: **1630, Picardy. A rich house is not one that have everything, it's the one which is most welcoming**. **Post-book fiction. Porthos/Coquenard.  
**DISCLAIMER: **Dumas and Maquet's works are public domain.

**Shame be to them  
**by Arithanas

Porthos contemplated his wife while she preen herself for Mass. After a year, to call her _his wife_ still brings a smile to his face. She was not the kind of beauty Aramis always chased, nor enchantress that haunted Athos' live. She was a woman, a precious flower —a little wilted, he could concede that—that mare her graces to make his life luminous. Porthos could be honest, he stalked her because he wanted her money, but things had changed over the time.

He could live in the poorest squalor, if she was by his side.

_You deserved better_, said his mother when he presented the widow of M. Coquenard as his wife. His siblings only saw her as a good deal: she was to die soon and his brother would be rich for all the family. So, in hopes to be remembered in his wife's testament, every member of his family had been sickling sweet to her, but she was not dull-witted; she knew she was not accepted, but barely tolerated.

Life in the Valley had not been a paradise, but they could manage.

Porthos started to get ready for Mass. She had washed his best batiste shirt which was immaculate as if it was new, and his purple doublet was in prime condition. She was better than any servant in France and Navarre. With a smile she came and correct a couple of creases in the clothes, and Porthos didn't even tried to help himself: he swept her from her feet and . She laughed at his unexpected display of affection and blushed at his playful nature. She was so mature, but also, so naive and confident, Porthos knew he was a twit for having her deceived, but he had the rest of their lives to make up for his ill behavior.

The house was quiet when they came down, the servants gave them vague excuses about the whereabouts of the familial ensemble, that really didn't matter, for Porthos going to church was just a way to show off his wife —not that he really need his mother and sisters-in-law to do it—, but, by the way his precious flower fidgeted with her fan, he could notice she was vexed.

Better not to make a fuss about it, there would do no good to stir the muddy water, so he made her wife climb to the carriage with his best smile and commanded the servants to take her to church while he mounted his bay and escorted her like he used to do while on service of Their Majesties.

In his mind, he was escorting and protecting a queen.

...

The worst thing about that little dark rural church was not that the priest was so old that he was still preaching the upcoming armageddon but that it was nude and the humming of prattling reached clear to his musket-worn ears and those words were not filled with Christian Charity. More than once, Porthos was ready to turn around and skewer a rude boor whose mouth spat a remark about old ladies and young roues; but her wife's arm around his pinned him on his place. Porthos didn't care what those dolts could think about of him, but he couldn't stand the tears on his wife's eyes.

Once the divine office was over, his wife idled some moments inside the church, she said him once she had some devotions to attend, but Porthos was sure his wife tried to give the louts time to scatter off. The stratagem was not successful.

"That's a real rousing sight," a youngster commented to his friend when Porthos and his wife walked by.

"For a real empty bag," it was the remark that the aforementioned friend dished out. This one was a twenty something lad, dressed with exquisite good taste, dated from the time when Porthos was cadet. "That's a morsel more attractive for the garnish it's attached to than for the quality of the meat."

Jest and mockery had their limits and that little scatterbrained boy had crossed them both. His wife tried desperately to make him stay by her side,but Porthos was cross and not even her sweet pleas were going to prevent that banteringly dimwit from having a piece of Porthos' mind. He muster his most intimidatory strut and his most impressive breast swelling and he stood tall by their side, without taking his hat off in greeting.

"Please, gentlemen," Porthos exclaimed, trying to be like Athos and gave a good example on manners, "That's not a way to speak about a lady, all the more so when such lady is my wife!"

"My apologies, good boy," that small town fop said with a sardonic laugh, "I believed she was _your mother_."

The good thing about Athos was that he always gave hims friends more than one example, thought Porthos was not sure if Athos would approve him as he served a smack to that little peacock right on the portico of the local church.

...

It was horrible, to say the least.

The damage that clotheshorse did to his wardrobe was the least of his troubles, but as his wife patched his scratches while crying bitterly, he noticed she couldn't stand the situation any longer. Even when he left those empty-headed peacocks alive —as he did that day—, he couldn't start a fight every Sunday, and even when he knocked enough heads, they were not going to stop the mockery. He cradled his wife and let her cry her disappointment and her hurt, he could do no more, except...

Well, there was one thing he could do.

Once she fell asleep, Porthos left their piece and went to search the treacherous group who left them alone when the guns were pointed at their backs. What use is a family when they don't protect you and your loved ones. The dearest and nearest... pooh! He roamed the big house but no brother nor sister were in sight, not even nephews and nieces. Porthos was fretful like a nervous horse and he needed some explanation or else he was going to smash some skulls!

The only soul in the castle was his old mother, seated by the window and that was a shame —one can't bang one's mother's head—, but that make him take a decision. Porthos came to her and placed a kiss in the top of her head. She was a small woman, and her eyes were perpetually astonished whenever she saw her son. Well, Porthos was plenty astonished of his height and good lucks, but even he was accustomed to them.

"Where are your children, mother?" Porthos asked her, he even tried to moderate his always booming voice but for the startled jump she gave on her place, Porthos noticed his precautions were not enough.

"By the river," was her answer, and her eyes averted him, like she was concealing something. "A family outing."

"How nice of them to invite us."

"I was tired, and maybe your wife too."

His wife was less venerable than his mother and the fact his own mother use that argument make his setting anger a little worse.

"Oh, she was... from the jive we get in church," Porthos said and take her hands, they were rough, rougher than his wife's. Those were the hands who made them all part of the chivalry. "Why didn't you warn us you were changing churches?"

"It was a fleeting whim! Your brother wanted a better priest, that was all." She dismissed his preoccupation like if it was a matter of little note. "They took me with them and there was no time to warn you."

"Madame, I know very well that you are not master in your own house," Porthos said, his big hand over the small fragile hands of the author of his days, "that your sons and daughters take you wherever you need to go. I don't blame you, however said sons and daughters had..." Porthos prayed that word meant what he wanted to said, because he only had heard it from Athos and Aramis, "grievously affronted my wife."

"Oh, how Paris changed my little boy!" the old rural lady plaint, withdrawing her hands from his son. "You was such a respectful child, you would never dream to make such recriminations to your old mother, who loved you so dearly!"

"Madame, my mother, your child is now a man," Porthos said, playing the tough guy in spite of that barb which stung him deeply. "A _married_ man, madame, and he only asked to partake the welcoming, loving arms of his mother with the woman he loves!"

That should be a shock for the old lady who stayed flabbergasted in her place, unable to understand how such words left his son's mouth. Porthos could barely believed them himself, because up to this day he would rather cut his arm rather than to distress his mother.

"This palaver is rather unbecoming to both of us. I don't blame you, madame, this was surely instigated by the rest of the house, who left us helpless in front of the uncouth bunch. I don't blame you for wanting to change your parish, Good lord!" Porthos might rather express his exasperation in harsher words, but this woman in front of him was his mother. "Married people need a home of their own," he knelt by her side and looked at her eyes. "We are leaving this house in the morning. I will never abandon you, madame, send me a couple of lines and you'll have me by your side, but I won't force my wife to live next to those who spurn her while coveting her money."

His mother's tears were bitter for Porthos' tender heart, but she was right, Paris changed her son. With all the filial affect he could muster, Porthos kissed her aged brow and tried, without much success, to wipe away those tears.

"You could tell the greedy bunch they lost any hope of inherit from my wife, but you'll never be in want of something, I'll make sure of it."

Then, he rose and went to the door. If he stayed long enough to let his mother find the words, surely, he would recant from his decision, and he owed his wife precisely quite the opposite. As he trespassed the threshold, Porthos forced to set his mind to Bracieux, which would be a nice place for them to live.

It had to be.


End file.
